One more miracle for me
by frosty's little night light
Summary: A year after Sherlock's suicide and Dr John Watson has returned to the captial still mourning for the loss of his friend. Rating gone up to M due to the good doctor's swearing and possible sexiness!
1. Chapter One 'All the tea in China'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock story after falling back in love with the series while re watching it while off work sick. I am not sure if this will be a proper fiction or just drabbles I just have to see how it goes...anyway enjoy.

Chapter One

'All the tea in China'

Dr John Watson sat nursing a stone cold mug of milky tea for about an hour. He stared blankly through the red gingham draped windows watching the early morning world bustle past but not really taking anything in. The quaint little cafe was situated roughly ten minutes walk from the flat in Baker Street and a further five minutes from the tube station which was just fine with John, he still couldn't bring himself to go any closer to number 221B, not without him. It had taken all his courage and yet another blazing with his sister 'Harry' for him to make it this far, to come back to London after all this time. And judging by the unwelcoming return of the pain in his leg and the way his left hand had started to tremble again he wasn't dealing very well with his decision to visit the capital.

John was just contemplating whether he was going to order a fresh mug of tea or pay his bill and wander down the street in search of a florist when his phone that lay upon the table in front of him chirp into life. John looked down at the battered but now treasured phone as the scratch screen lit up with a message. The caller ID had been withheld but John had a pretty good idea who had sent him the message. Snatching up the phone John thumbed the button to open up the message, his stomach tightened and his hands shook violently as he read the text. John slammed the phone down onto the table, rattling his mug and drawing unwanted attention to himself from the other customers. Two words, it had taken only two words to cruelly reopen the wounds of the past, to have him trembling with rage and on the verge of tears. John ground his teeth, fighting the bile rising, burning his throat, if he had somehow managed to force down the full English breakfast that now lay untouched and congealing upon the white china plate before him, he would have certainly lost it.

"No phone call, no text, no communication at all since the funeral and now he graces me with merely two blood words..." muttered John harshly under his breath as he just gazed at the message from Mycroft Holmes until the screen darkened.

'Remember him'

"How could I ever forget him?" John whispered as he covered his face with his hands, unaware the pretty blonde waitress that had taken his order was slowly making her way from behind the counter towards his table. John had never hated anyone in his life as much as he hated Sherlock's older brother, his short almost accusing message torn the doctor's grieving heart to shreds. How could he ever forget that socially awkward, infuriating, arrogant, fascinating, exciting genius of a man? And to even doubt that he could forget this day, a date that would be forever engraved upon his broken heart because watching his best friend...no...his only friend, the man that he owed so much jumped from the roof of Bartholomew's Hospital to his death would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even with the unspeakable horror, suffering and pain he had witnessed during his military service, all the comrades and pals he had lost nothing could have foretold just how deeply he would be traumatised by the suicide of the world's only consulting detective, his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you okay sir?" asked the waitress as she gently placed an anxious, comforting hand upon John's hunched shoulder. John startled by the sudden, unexpected human contact bolted upright in his chair knocking his mug over, the cold tea spilling over his untouched breakfast and soaking into the red gingham tablecloth. "I'm so sorry" gasped the waitress starting to redden with embarrassment. "I...I didn't mean to startle you...here let me get you another breakfast...on the house."

"No...I am fine honestly" replied John his cheeks equally as coloured and flushed. "I don't know why I ordered it in the first place when to tell you the truth I am really not that hungry"

"Well at least let me get you a fresh mug of tea, you look like you need cheering up and my grandmother use say things always seem better after a nice cup of tea" offered the young woman with an affectionate, hopeful smile.

"Thank you...that is very kind but no..." replied John sadly shaking his head as he rose from his chair, the legs scraping noisily across the tilted floor. He fumbled in depths of his jacket pocket, pushing out a crumbled twenty pound note and tossing it onto the table away from the spilt tea. It was more than enough to pay for his uneaten meal and the mess that his surprised clumsiness had caused. John headed towards the door and pulling it open he turned to glance back at the pretty blonde waitress. "Your grandmother was right and usually I would agree...it is just on this particular occasion I doubt even all the tea in China would help make things seem better..."

And slowly turning his back upon the bemused young woman Dr John Watson walked out of the cafe into the busy street and sadly set his mind upon finding somewhere he could purchase a fittingly beautiful, unique bouquet of flowers.


	2. Chapter Two 'The Purple Shirt'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N So looks like this isn't going to be a one shot as the second chapter came to me...although I broke my rule of keeping it under a thousands words...oh well enjoy.

Chapter Two

'The Purple Shirt'

Dr John Watson clasped the upturned lapels of his jacket closed against the chill breeze as he forlornly limped his way between the marble angels and headstones. A solitary but a comfortingly familiar and figure stood, head bowed in silent contemplation patiently waiting for him under the tree. John could feel his courage slowly diminishing; every step close was truly torturous for him, the still raw emotional pain stabbing mercilessly at his already wounded heart but he had to be strong, he had to do this...for her.

"He said that you would come" the smartly dressed, petite middle-aged woman said quietly as if she feared breaking the tranquil stillness of the graveyard.

"Who said?" questioned John as he came to stand beside Mrs Hudson, his former landlady, not his housekeeper.

"Sherlock's brother" Mrs Hudson answered softly, still gazing at the headstone.

"Mycroft" John muttered bitterly, his fingers protectively, almost instinctively tightening around the large bouquet that he held in his trembling left hand. "And what else did Mycroft say?" John questioned he tone was sharp and slightly forced as if even uttering the name of Sherlock's older sibling brought the tragic memories flooding back. In truth John didn't need the reminder of Mycroft Holmes to bring back the nightmare of that day, his farewell apology, his confession, his blood on the pavement...that had never left him

"Oh nothing else really, just that you would be here" replied Mrs Hudson.

"How could I not be here Mrs Hudson?" questioned John desperately trying to choke back the tears now that he was actually standing there at his best friend's graveside.

"I know...I miss him too John. Despite the marks he made on my table, firing that gun at half past one in the morning and keeping those bloody specimens in the fridge...I miss him...oh you brought him orchids" said Mrs Hudson as she finally turned to gaze at the doctor. "They're so beautiful..." complimented Mrs Hudson clasping a hand to her chest, her eyes misting with tears.

"It's a bit extravagant I know..." replied John glancing down sheepishly at the exquisite and outrageously expensive arrangement of deep purple orchards. "But it just didn't seem right to buy him something as commonplace as carnations, roses or lilies...not Sherlock"

"He had a shirt that colour" remarked Mrs Hudson as tears started to tumble down her cheeks. "I always liked him in that shirt, he always worn such impeccable, beautifully tailored clothes..."

"Unlike me" said John joked as he pulled his handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Mrs Hudson. She took it whispering 'thank you' between the sobs and dabbed at her eyes while John gingerly put his arm around her shoulder to offer a little comfort. "I don't think Sherlock was into sentimental things like flowers...he probably have dissected the orchids for some tedious pollen database or something..." John joked managing to give Mrs Hudson a weak smile before struggling slightly with the nagging pain in his leg as he crouched down and gently laid the orchids upon Sherlock's grave.

John stood for a moment, head respectfully stooped, lost in his own personal silent reflection. He reached out with a trembling hand to gently caress the smooth curve of the headstone. The highly polished black marble felt so cold beneath his fingertips, the dark reflective surface carved only with his name and highlighted in gold, dramatic and so elegant just like the man that now rested in peace beneath it.

"I am sure Sherlock would have liked the orchids" whispered Mrs Hudson more to herself than her companion, not wanting to break John from his reverence. John tried not to think of his friend lying beneath the soil, he tried not to think of Sherlock at all, it just hurt too much.

John had no idea how long he had been wordlessly standing, staring down at Sherlock's grave but when at last he torn himself away he was alone. It wasn't until John started to limp back up the glassy slope towards the church that he spotted Mrs Hudson, hand neatly folded in her laps as she sat anxiously upon a wooden bench near the entrance of the churchyard.

"Oh John" sobbed Mrs Hudson as she jumped up from the bench and nervously grasped him upon the arm in an earnest attempt to stop him leaving without her. John looked down at his former land lady with worried sympathy; her tired brown eyes were beseeching, full of anxiety and tears. "I...I...don't know what to do. It's been a whole year since...since we lost him and still I can't face setting foot in that flat on my own. It's all there John...all his possessions just as he left them. And I don't want to let the place...but...but I need the money".

"He would understand" soothed John as he wrapped his arms around Mrs Hudson and tried to comfort her with a hug.

"Mrs Turner's boys next door offered to lend a hand they are nice enough, caring and all that but well I just couldn't bear just anyone rooting through his stuff... " sobbed Mrs Hudson as she dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief again.

"It's alright Mrs Hudson" said John squeezing her tightly to his chest, the tears now slowly trickling down his own cheeks. "I'll help you pack up Sherlock's belongings".

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs Hudson with a little snivel as he looked up at him. She was still trembling, the tears still reddening her eyes but her expression had brightened a little. "It could take a few days even with the two of us, Sherlock had so much clutter".

"Oh...I am sure my sister can cope without me for a few days, it might even do us both good to be out of each other's hair for a little while" replied John as he thought back to their heated argument before he had dashed for the train to London. "I think maybe Harry is right, miracles only happen in fairytales...maybe it is time I moved on?"

John knew he was only lying to himself, that helping Mrs Hudson clear away Sherlock's possessions wasn't going to ease his sorrow or heal his pain. John also knew that setting foot in 221B Baker Street again wouldn't help him cope with the terrifying, heartbreaking memories of Sherlock jumping to his death that haunted him whenever closed his eyes, in fact it would probably make his nightmares much worse...but somehow it seemed fitting that he, Sherlock's only friend should be the one to do it.


	3. Chapter Three Earth goes around the Sun

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Three

'The Earth goes around the Sun'

Dr John Watson felt a tantalizing little shiver of apprehensive dread as he crossed the threshold of 221 Baker Street. In that terrible, lonely year he had been absent from the building it seemed just as he had left it on that fateful day. As he stood at the bottom of the staircase leading upwards to 221B the place seemed barely touched by Sherlock's suicide and yet for John that tragic moment when his best friend had jumped to his death had so cruelly changed his whole life.

"You go ahead dear" suggested Mrs Hudson as she pressed 221B's keys into John's hand. "I'll go make us a nice pot of tea and see if I can find some of those biscuits you were so partial to". She gave John a warm, motherly smile before disappearing off into her own flat to organize the refreshments, suddenly leaving John so alone.

John softly cursed his stiff, aching leg as he struggled to climb the seventeen, uncarpeted steps to the flat. Once at the door John took a deep breath trying to calm his nerves and the thunderous pounding of his quickened heartbeat. He winced at the harsh, rasping sound of metal scraping upon metal, his hand shaking so badly it took several attempts before he could even get the key in the lock.

As John gingerly inched opened the dark, wooden door his nostrils were instantly assaulted by a pungent, lingering smell of mildew and decay from the unaired, neglected flat. John shuddered, only a year ago these rooms he had shared with Sherlock had seemed so cosy and familiar but now everywhere just appeared uninviting and alien. The living room, always a hive of activity, dominated by that stunning dark chocolate, flocked wallpaper was now silent, cast in a musty, stale gloom, curtains still drawn against the prying, judgmental world. John hobbled across the living room; sighing despondently he dragged back the heavy drapes, allowing the sunlight once again into 221B.

As John slowly limped back to clear the clutter from a small table next to his favourite armchair, his foot sent something small and plastic to skitter across the patterned rug. Curious, John crouched down awkwardly and picked up what appeared to be a meticulously painted, tiny plastic sphere, the planet earth.

"Oh Sherlock..." gasped John, his stomach suddenly tightening as he was flooded with such painfully fond memories. The child's Solar System model kit which he had picked up at the Science Museum had been more of a joke gift, a token gesture to celebrate the season of good will with his crazy, eccentric flatmate. Something Sherlock had unwrapped with tight lipped embarrassment, then cast aside or so John had thought. But glancing in the direction where his foot had kicked the sphere, John could now see the rest of the completed model gathering dust where it had been lost, fallen under the table. John sank to his knees, his legs suddenly turning to jelly as he clutched onto the sphere and finally broke down, surrendering to his overwhelming grief.

"Oh John..." gasped Mrs Hudson as she put her loaded tray down with a loud clatter and hurried over to him.

"He didn't even know the earth goes around the sun..."sobbed John; tears streaming down his anguished face as he allowed Mrs Hudson help him to his feet and guide him over to the armchair.

"I'm so sorry Mrs Hudson" apologised John between shuddering sobs, still clutching the sphere so tightly in his trembling hand. "To lose it over something so trivial and childish...and...I thought he hated my present...thought it was ridiculous and juvenile" continued John shaking and breathing heavy as he desperately tried to regain his composure.

"Well...it must have meant something to him..." soothed Mrs Hudson as she leant forward and gently patted John upon the hand. "I've never known Sherlock to do anything just for the sake of it...here...this will make you feel better" continued Mrs Hudson offering John a cup of tea.

"Thank you" replied John biting back the temptation to explain the futility of the beverage actually lightening his mood. Instead he just offered her a weak smile while thrusting the tiny globe into his pocket and after struggling out of his jacket, he took the cup from Mrs Hudson. His left hand shook so badly, the fine bone china teacup rattling violently upon the saucer that John thought it might topple off. A hot blush coloured John's gaunt cheeks as he tried to steady the cup with his other hand fearing this would be the second time today that he had spilt tea everywhere.

"Oh don't worry about the carpet" said Mrs Hudson waving away any suggestion that she was in the slightest bit bothered if John made a mess. "The whole flat is going to need a thorough cleaning before I let it to new tenants...I don't suppose you would want to move back...no...of course you wouldn't...silly me...just forget I even suggested it...chocolate Hobnob?" asked Mrs Hudson slightly flustered as she thrust a newly opened packet of biscuits under John's nose. "I kept them especially...just on the off chance you might visit".

"I'm sorry...it was just too painful" confessed John as resting his cup and saucer upon his demin clad knee as he took a biscuit from the packet.

"It's alright John, I understand..." smiled Mrs Hudson as she gestured for John to help himself to more than one chocolate covered Hobnob. He looked so much thinner since she last saw him at the funeral and the dark shadows under his sad, blue eyes could help cause Mrs Hudson to worry about him. "It must have been especially hard for you..."

"Thank you" replied John taking two more biscuits suddenly regretting not eating that cooked breakfast as his stomach started to angry rumble. "Er...why did you think it was especially hard for me?"

"Oh well...you know" answered Mrs Hudson taking a dainty sip from her cup. "You being so close to Sherlock, his faithful, trusted companion, always dashing around god knows where after him after him..."

"You make me sound like his pet dog" replied John as he dunked a biscuit into his tea.

"You were Sherlock's best friend, his only friend John...and...and you will always be welcome here" said Mrs Hudson tearfully.

As John sipped at his third cup of tea and worked his way through yet another handful of biscuits Mrs Hudson finally broke the comfortable, familiar silence that had crept over them with a little, sad sigh.

"I think there are some empty cardboard boxes in your room John. Detective Inspector Lestrade and Molly brought them over when they came to removed the body parts from the fridge...I think Molly took that skull as well...I don't suppose Sherlock would have minded her taking that..."

"No...I don't think he would have minded at all. How is Molly?" asked John. "I haven't heard from her since I left London to stay with my sister. She was so kind to let me sleep on her sofa and collect my stuff from here..."

"Oh" said Mrs Hudson putting down her cup. "So you haven't heard the scandal then?"

"What scandal?" asked John worriedly as a hundred bad thoughts suddenly entered his head. "Is Molly alright?"

"Oh Molly is fine...Mrs Lestrade is the one you have to feel sorry for I suppose but I never liked the woman, said some very hurtful things about our Sherlock...apparently it is all around Scotland Yard..."

"Molly and Lestrade?" spluttered John in shock as he nearly choked on his biscuit. "How the hell did that happen?"

"I'm not entirely sure to tell you that truth" admitted Mrs Hudson. "I suppose what started as a shared grief; the need to still believe in Sherlock initially brought them together. Sherlock's death divided the country John, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Molly took a lot of flak for supporting Sherlock...I guess their new found friendship just blossomed into something much stronger".

"Well good for them Mrs Hudson...good for them" said John brightly after a few moments contemplating the news. John carefully put his cup back onto the tray; his tired, handsome features were suddenly lit up by a thoughtful and determined expression. "Well I think we've put it off for long enough...time we made a start on packing up Sherlock's clutter".


	4. Chapter Four 'The Belstaff Coat'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Four

'The Belstaff Coat'

Dr John Watson gave a little weary groan as he slowly straightened up, pressing his hands hard into the small of his back as he attempted to stretched his aching body. It was late afternoon, the skies outside the window were turning grey, suggesting rain and there was a definite chill in the air. Although John and Mrs Hudson haven't stopped labouring through Sherlock's clutter since midday, they had only just managed to pack up one small corner of the living room. The ten cardboard boxes of varying sizes, some John suspected were originally intended to hold police evidence and case files, were all neatly stacked upon or in front of the green leather sofa. And there were seven large, black bin bags scattered about the room bugling with scrap paper and discarded, unpaid bills.

"Oh John" sighed Mrs Hudson as she tied up the last of the rubbish bags. "I am such a nuisance; you haven't missed your train back now have you?"

"It doesn't matter" replied John calmly. "I'll find somewhere nearby then we can get stuck into this again tomorrow"

"You will do nothing of the sort John Watson" scolded Mrs Hudson waving her finger at him. "Didn't I say you were always welcome to stay with me?"

"Oh no...no...I couldn't intrude..." replied John, a little shiver dancing down his spine at the thought of spending the night in 221, Baker Street again. "I wouldn't want to be a bother...beside I snore...terribly...use to keep Sherlock up all night sometimes"

"Honestly it is no bother..."insisted Mrs Hudson in a firm but maternal tone. "My late husband use to snore but if it will make you feel less embarrassed I'll just make up the bed in Sherlock's old room...I can't have you spending your money on a hotel when there is a perfectly good bed going free here John".

"Sherlock's room?" replied John a little taken aback as if Mrs Hudson had suggested he trespassed upon hallowed ground.

"Well yes dear...if that is okay because I gave the bed in your room to Mrs Turner next door...apparently her two tenants...you remember the married ones? Well now it seems that they insist upon separate beds something about one of them working nightshifts...I don't know..." explained Mrs Hudson as she walked over to the little table to clean away the tray.

"No...no...that's fine" replied John in a strangled whisper, his voice rising a couple of octaves higher than normal.

"Thank you for doing this John. I don't think I could have faced sorting through all his stuff on my own"

"It's my pleasure, honestly. I am glad that you asked me...my therapist would say it packing up Sherlock's possessions was healthy, that it would help me to move on" said John thoughtfully.

"And do you believe that?" asked Mrs Hudson kindly, her expression questioning, full of apprehension for the man she had come to consider, like Sherlock as someone more like a son to her than a lodger.

"Not really" answered John quietly, sighing sadly as he thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and glanced down nervously at the floor.

"Shall I make us dinner, nothing fancy perhaps beans on toast or I could pop out and get us some fish and chips?" asked Mrs Hudson reluctant to leave John on his own but desperate not to scare him off by smothering him with all her motherly concern.

"To be honest I'm not that hungry Mrs Hudson but I'll go to the chip shop if you like" replied John as he finally decided to snatch up the solar system model from under the table. Dusting it down with the sleeve cuff of his cable knit jumper he carefully placed the model into a box on his armchair, memories of Sherlock he had permitted himself to keep, to help him 'move on'. "I think I have a tenner left in my wallet ..."

"Oh John" scolded Mrs Hudson shaking her head. "I'm fine but you really should eat something; you're looking so pale and thin..."

"You sound just like Harry...oh shit...shit...she'll be setting off to meet me from the train. Sorry Mrs Hudson I better give her a call and let her know I am staying here tonight" said John as he started to fumble through his jacket pockets to locate his mobile phone.

"You do that dear" replied Mrs Hudson as she picked up the tray and started towards the door. "I'll go find you some clean bed linen and a blanket. And perhaps a nice mug of hot chocolate, it will help you sleep and I'll leave the biscuits here..." she continued placing the half packet of Hobnobs on the corner of the kitchen table. "Just in case you get a little peckish in the middle of the night, but I insist on making you a proper breakfast in the morning you hear...you can't go on just eating biscuits John, it just isn't good for you...you should know that dear, you are a doctor"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson" said John quietly as he watched her disappear out of the door. John took a deep breath as he decided to send Harry a text instead. He just couldn't face the questions, the accusations that would only result in yet another heated argument about how his former flatmate still had a hold over him even from beyond the grave, that he was more haunted by Sherlock's death than everything he had suffering during his service in Afghanistan and he just needed to let go.

John had been far too tired to make the bed up properly, besides it was only going to be for one night so he just tucked the bottom sheet around the mattress, pulled on one of the pillow cases and draped the rest of the bed linen over the bed. He sat lost in thought upon the edge of Sherlock's dark, wooden framed bed as he sipped the hot chocolate that Mrs Hudson had bought him before she retired to bed herself. He knew Mrs Hudson, his sister; everyone meant well, everyone was worried about him but how could they know just how deeply Sherlock's life had touch him, just how deeply he grieved for his best friend when he couldn't put it into words himself. 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him', John knew the last pathetic few words he had posted onto his blog were by no means a fitting epitaph but he just couldn't bear to write about Sherlock's death, that just made it all too real, too final in his mind.

John let out a heavy, sad sigh as he put his empty mug down upon the bedside table and got ready for bed. After splashing his face with water and due to the absence of a toothbrush he quickly swilled his mouth out with an old bottle of mouthwash he had found in the bathroom cabinet. Slipping out of his boots and socks, John glanced around the dimly lit bedroom for somewhere to put his clothes. John's years of military service had drummed into him the need to be neat and organized so it was no surprise that he soon found himself standing barefoot before Sherlock's wardrobe. As he tugged his chunky jumper over his head and slowly started to unbutton his red, cotton shirt John decided the best thing would be if he hung his clothes up in the wardrobe, he had to wear them home the next day after all.

John pulled open the wardrobe door and almost instantly slammed it shut again. Taking a deep breath he inched open the door to what he had thought would have been an empty wardrobe only to discover it contained the one thing he had never expected to see again, the grey Belstaff coat, Sherlock's coat. John's hands started to tremble as he gently pulled the 'Millford' coat out of the wardrobe, his chest tightened as his fingers caressed the faded, stripy blue scarf, neatly knotted around the neck just as Sherlock worn it.

John staggered backwards, suddenly lightheaded and nauseous as he desperately clung to the coat, burying his face in the familiar heavy woollen fabric as a violent resurgence of suppressed feelings associated with the last time he saw Sherlock wearing the coat stabbed at his heart. Shaking, fighting back the terrible memories John toppled onto the bed as the back of his legs collide sharply with the wooden frame. All pain and embarrassment John might have felt as he rolled over on the mattress were overshadowed by his inconsolable grief for the lost of his best friend. Curling onto his side, still wearing his jeans and too emotional exhausted to even pull the blanket over himself, Dr John Watson cried himself to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5 'But I'm not gay'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

AN:Not too sure about this chapter but had the idea in my head and had to run with it...enjoy.

Chapter Five

'But I'm not gay"

Dr John Watson woke with a violent start, sweat slicked and trembling as a whimpering sob struggled to escape from his tightened, dry throat. He shivered in the cold, ominous darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom suddenly frowning as he discovered that someone had draped the blanket over him. John froze, sucking in his breath and holding it as he nervously peered over the edge of the blanket into the blackness, ears straining for the slightest sound. John was pretty damn sure that Mrs Hudson however much she cared and worried about him wouldn't have crept into the flat just to make sure he was tucked up in bed. He had been far too exhausted and upset to bother with the blanket himself so the only other conclusion John could deduce from the fact that he was now covered by a blanket was that someone else had been in the flat. John's stomach contracted into a taut ball of nerves as a sickening thought flashed into his head, what if this mysterious 'blanket draper' was still in the flat, watching him from the shadows? John shuddered, suddenly feeling quite vulnerable and wished he had retrieved his revolver from where he had hidden it under a floorboard in the bathroom. Desperately trying to calm his breathing and slowly inching towards the edge of the bed John's mind was racing with a hundred scenarios, none of them good.

"Oh do go back to sleep John..." a slightly irritated, condescending voice drifted from the shadows. "Anyone would have thought I had covered you with the shroud from my coffin the way you're acting".

"Sher...lock?" choked John, that deep sensual voice was unmistakable. "Shit...shit..." sworn John almost fell out of the bed as he struggled to switch on the bedside lamp. "Oh my god" gasped John as he stumbled backwards, the bedroom now flooded with pale, golden light he could see Sherlock sitting calmly upon a chair in the corner. His dark, curls were longer, more unruly than John remembered, his striking, ashen face was painfully thinner and the dark blue suit he was wearing seemed a little too big for his slim frame. But deep within his heart, despite everything John knew the man that sat with one long, slender leg crossed over the other and his hands neatly folded in his lap could be no one else but Sherlock Holmes.

"But...but...you're dead" stammered John nearly tripping over the edge of the blanket that he still clasped about his shoulders as Sherlock calmly rose from the chair and started to walk towards him.

"Apparently not" replied Sherlock calmly as he uncharacteristically held out his arms to embrace John, a sad, concerned expression upon his beautiful face.

"You bastard..."hissed John as he almost ruby tackled Sherlock onto the bed in a fit of sudden, trembling rage, "You selfish, arrogant bastard"

"I hardly think that is a fitting description John" Sherlock rasped a little unnerved and surprised by John's attack.

"Really?" snapped John as he straddled Sherlock's hips, forcing him down against the mattress.

"I can assure you my parents were illegally wed at the time of my birth, Mycroft's too. So I don't see how..."

"You are still a bastard" snapped John punching Sherlock on the jaw, all his pain, anger and grief combined in that one punch.

"OUCH" complained Sherlock rubbing his jaw; John could certainly pack a mean punch when truly provoked. "What on earth was that for?" questioned Sherlock sounding a little confused.

"The same reason as this one" growled John as he landed another swift, vicious blow upon the unusually bewildered Sherlock, this time punching him square in the face.

"I...I...hate you" spat John angrily as he pound his fists against Sherlock's willowy chest suddenly overwhelmed with such a intense combination of powerful, raw emotions. John's whole body trembled violently as he was swamped with feeling of anguish, rage and guilt. "I...hate...you".

"For goodness sake calm down John" scolded Sherlock as he caught hold of John's wrists trying to prevent another attack upon his face. Sherlock ran the tip of his tongue cautiously over his bruised, spilt bottom lip. "I am bleeding".

"CALM DOWN...don't you tell me to calm down" snarled John struggling to break free of Sherlock's vice like grip.

"I am so sorry John" whispered Sherlock, his voice slightly wavering, strangely edged with emotion and there was an unfamiliar tenderness in his tone. For someone so slender and pale Sherlock was surprisingly strong, John ground his teeth in frustration as he was forced to surrender to his former flatmate's hold upon him. As Sherlock pulled him against his chest, John could feel Sherlock's heart beating wildly beneath the crisp white cotton of his shirt, smell the familiar, intoxicating musk of his expensive cologne, feel his hot, rasping breath against his cheek. John was caught for a moment lost in the endless unfathomable depths of those clear sapphire eyes.

"I...I thought you were dead Sherlock...I watched you jump...I...I saw the blood..." said John tearfully as he was gripped with the sudden, unexpected impulse to close the gap between them and pressed his trembling lips upon Sherlock's mouth. The world's first consulting detective's pale blue eyes widened in surprise but he didn't push John away. The taunt line of his perfectly shaped mouth quivered for a moment softening into a brief smile before melting into John's caress. John shuddered as the coppery tang of Sherlock's blood lingered upon his tongue as with a soft moan Sherlock parted his lips inviting John to deepen the kiss. John felt Sherlock relax beneath him, he loosened his grip upon John's wrists as he reclined back against the pillows, reaching up to entangle his long, slender fingers in the doctor's short, blond hair. And in that brief, unguarded moment Sherlock had never felt so alive to John, so precious to him.

John finally broke the kiss, pulling away light-headed and breathless he stared down at Sherlock, his perfectly sculpted features slightly flushed, his lips swollen, moist and slightly parted, his unruly dark brown curls framing that beautiful, angular pale face and finally overcome with emotions burst into floods of tears.

"But I'm...not...gay" John insisted in between the pitiful sobs as he tried to scramble off Sherlock, ashamed and confused by his actions. But Sherlock refused to let John escape from his embrace, pulling him back down against his chest he held him tenderly.

"I'm not gay Sherlock I...I..." protested John, shivering suddenly cold and emotionally drained.'

"Shhhhh John" whispered Sherlock as he pulled the blanket over the both of them then started to comb his long, elegant fingers soothing through John's hair. "Sleep now, we can talk about this in the morning".

"But I'm not..." insisted John with a yawn as he slowly relaxed under his friend's comforting touch but still reluctant to close his tired, sleep heavy eyes afraid he would awake to find this all a dream.

"I know...John...I know you are not gay" whispered Sherlock, a bizarrely satisfied smile upon his lips as the soft sound of John snoring in his arms echoed around the darkened bedroom. "Neither am I".


	6. Chapter Six You would prefere a coffee

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Six

'Would you prefer a coffee then?'

Dr John Watson sighed, rolling over to find the other side of the bed cold and so devastatingly empty.

"Sherlock?" the word caught in his throat, escaping as a tortured groan as John buried his face into the vacant pillow. There was a sudden terrible, painful aching in his chest and the tears started to mist his eyes as John realised last night was nothing more than a but a wishful dream. John hugged the pillow, sobbing until there were no tears left to weep, he felt sick to his stomach, light headed and more than just a little foolish. John must have remained like that, hugging the pillow for over an hour before he finally decided to crawl out of bed and padded bare foot into the bathroom. John stifled a yawn as he watched the water slowly fill the pale green bathtub. He figured a nice leisurely soak in the bath might help clear his head before he continued another distressing, poignant day packing away Sherlock's belonging.

John stepped into the bathtub with a heavy sigh as the relaxing warm water caressed his flesh and soothed his tired, aching body. As John sat and watched the steam, spiralling upwards off the surface of the water, his thoughts mournfully drifting to Sherlock. John's hand trembled as he lifted his fingertips to his mouth, brushing them gently across his lips he remembering that kiss. It had seemed so real, felt so unexpectedly good but now left him with such emptiness and such a renewed desperate longing for his friend. As the warm, humid air made John feel drowsy, he rested his head back upon the end of the bath, sinking deeper into the water. The saddening memories of his dream and the general resurfacing of old, raw emotions John struggled to fight his drowsiness as his eye lids started to grow increasingly heavy.

John was jotted back into conscious by a loud smashing sound; he gripped the sides of the bathtub to stop himself sliding under the water, his heart hammering wildly against his chest. John's lethargic brain still sluggish from his watery nap coupled with his freshly grieving heart allowed years of instinct and military training take over from his common sense and logical reasoning. John scrambled out of the now tepid water; picking up the small, worn grey bath towel that he had found crumbled on the floor of Sherlock's wardrobe and hastily wrapped it about his waist. John swore angrily, his breathing short, panicky and his fingers bleeding as he clawed at the floorboard where he had hidden his pistol. Snatching up the Sig Sauer, he thumbed off the safety catch and taking a deep, steadying breath slowly turned the door handle.

The sight that greeted John on the other side of the door made him cry out, if his knowledge of medicine and human anatomy wasn't among the best the in the country, he could have sworn his heart skipped a beat.

"SHERLOCK...you're...alive" cried John as he stood in the bathroom doorway, still clutching his sidearm and aiming directly at Sherlock Holmes' chest.

"Well yes" replied Sherlock calmly although his grip upon the heavily laden tray he was carrying tightened slightly and a fleeting expression of surprised confusion betrayed his composed demeanour. "I think we established that fact last night, John".

"But...but...I woke up and you weren't there...I thought I had lost you again Sherlock...I thought last night had just been a dream" replied John his voice cracking with emotion, the pistol trembling in his hand.

"Have you dreamt of me often, then?" asked Sherlock genuinely surprised by John's words.

"Yes...every bloody night since you...you..." answered John now close to tears. "And every morning when I woke up to discover you were still...still dead and it had only a dream...it destroyed another piece of my heart".

"I..." Sherlock sighed sadly obviously moved by John's heartbreaking honestly. "I didn't know, John. I am sorry, I never would have left you alone if I had known...but see I wanted to make you breakfast" explain Sherlock gesturing toward the tray he held with a nod of his head. "Please, put the gun away and have a nice cup of tea it will make you..."

"DAMN IT Sherlock if anyone else tells me that a cup of tea is going to make me feel better... I swear I am going to bloody scream..."

"Oh" replied Sherlock looking mournfully down at the tray. "Would you prefer a coffee then?"

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, watching his beautiful, pale face twist with an indisputable and highly amusing frown of utter confusion then burst into raucous laughter as he saw the ridiculousness of the situation. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was standing there dripping wet, clutching a small, thin bath towel to his waist, brandishing a Sig Sauer and arguing over a pot of bloody tea.

"No...no...tea will be fine Sherlock, thank you" John smiled as he finally lowered the handgun.

Sitting upon the bed now wearing Sherlock's dressing gown, his wounded fingers protected with plasters Sherlock had found in the bathroom cabinet. John slipped at his tea and munched on a slice of buttery, jammed toast. John couldn't stop himself breaking into a huge, stupid grin as he kept slyly glancing sideways at Sherlock who was actually eating breakfast with him, John haven't felt so contented in a very long time.

"I meant what I said ...last night" said John finally putting down his teacup and turning to look directly at Sherlock, blushing slightly at the memory.

"You said a lot of things last night John" reminded Sherlock coolly, peering over the rim of his cup at John. "Most of which I have no desire to repeat in polite company.

"I'm not gay" said John suddenly feeling the compulsion to look at his hands.

"I never said that you were" replied Sherlock taking a strangely large gulp of tea.

"And last night..." continued John nervously as he intently studied the plasters that Sherlock had carefully applied to his scratched fingertips.

"You were emotional" suggested Sherlock as he took another mouthful of hot tea. "Suffering from the severe shock of your friend returning for the dead"

"Yes" agreed John returning his attention back to Sherlock's striking face and feeling a hot blush creep over his cheeks.

"You needed comfort I obliged, it is as simple as that John" said Sherlock, the taunt line of his lips quivering into a brief edgy smile.

"So what now?" asked John nervously, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Sherlock slowly lean across the bed and place his empty cup upon the tray and snatch up the last piece of toast. He munched upon a corner, deep in thought. A strange, distant smile curled those thin lips upwards as something amused him and his bright blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

"We both move back into the flat, I am sure Mrs Hudson will be more than delighted to have us as tenants again. We solve crimes together, well I say 'we' I do the crime solving you blog about it, yes surprisingly I did miss reading your terrible illiterate drabbles...and things carry on as normal John" Sherlock turned his gaze upon John examining his friend's face intently, questioningly for a moment awaiting his reply. "If that is agreeable to you, of course" he added almost timidly.

"Oh god yes" replied John "That sounds very agreeable, very agreeable indeed".


	7. Chapter 7 'A packet of cigarettes'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The following chapter is for KL08, Rose O'Sharon and everyone who has taken the time to read this story thank you so much for your reviews, your kind word and my love of Sherlock is what keeps me writing this. I hope you enjoy the next chapter, it is a bit longer than normal but I had so much fun writing it.

Chapter Seven

A packet of cigarettes

Dr John Watson struggled up the steps to flat 221B Baker Street carrying a large cardboard box balanced precariously on the top of a battered, brown old fashioned suitcase. Grumbling John carefully dropped his burden just inside the flat door and flopped down in his armchair to catch his breath. Sherlock was lying onto the leather sofa in his blue silk dressing gown; the one John had borrowed at breakfast when Sherlock had returned to him, facing the wall.

"Well I am back" said John as he finally rose from the armchair and wandered into the kitchen to make himself some tea after his long, tiresome journey back to London. "Do you want a cuppa? Oh that is just bloody typical..." John huffed indignantly as he slammed the fridge shut and started toward the door.

"Where are you going now?" asked Sherlock, a slight edgy annoyance to his voice, still lounging upon the sofa.

"Oh just off to the shops, it is what I like to do after a three hour train journey carrying all my worldly belonging" replied John sarcastically. "I mean it wouldn't have hurt you to get some milk and bread while I was away, it doesn't look like you've moved off that sofa since I left the flat a few days ago" complained John searching for his wallet.

"You said you would be staying at your sister's place for two days at the most John...you were gone away for a whole week" corrected Sherlock holding up his credit card between two elegant, slender fingers, not even turning to look at John.

"I'm surprised you even noticed" muttered John as he took the credit card and stormed out of the flat.

"Of course I noticed John" replied Sherlock quietly, his voice soft, gentle and with a hint of sadness. "I always notice things if they concern you".

John had barely taken three steps out of the supermarket doorway, clutching two plastic bag filled with groceries when a familiar shinny black car draw to a halt before him. John stopped dead in his tracks, watching as the door opened and Anthea, Mycroft's assistant popped her head out.

"I know the drill" John sighed as he walked up to the car and reluctantly got into the backseat.

John found himself standing in a dimly lit underground car park about thirty minutes drive from the supermarket he had just visited, staring up at Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft Holmes.

"I see you have decided to move back into the flat with my brother" said Mycroft in a serious, quite condescending tone. The tall, impeccably dressed man leant casually against his umbrella, his handsome face fixed in a stony expression, not giving anything away.

"Yes..." replied John a little defensively. "I suppose you knew Sherlock was still alive?"

"Of course I did..." scoffed Mycrof tapping his umbrella upon the concrete floor. "I feel it is my duty to inform you Dr Watson that I allowed my brother to come back against my better judgement. You might not be aware but Mr Moriarty's final sniper was found beheaded on the Jubilee line a fortnight ago. An awful business, his head was taken clean off with a samurai sword of all things, not very advantageous to the digestion I can tell you. So unfortunately with all three snipers dead I no longer had a legitimate reason to stop Sherlock returning from the grave. I had hoped Miss Adler would have proven a worthy distraction but alas no..."

"Wait a minute...Irene Adler is alive as well?" asked John in surprise. "Is that who Sherlock has been with all this time?"

"We are not jealous now are we Dr Watson? Interesting...maybe my little brother was right about you all along" Mycroft mused playfully, a brief smile curling his lips.

"No...why should I be jealous?" snapped John thrusting his hands into his jeans pockets and feeling Sherlock's credit card brush against his fingertips. "I'm just sick of being lied to..."

"And that brings us to crux of this little meeting Dr Watson" replied Mycroft his tone serious again. "I am worried about Sherlock...I have only seen him like this once before and believe me I do not wish to repeat that nightmarish experience again..."

"The drugs?" asked John nervously.

"My little brother has...how can one put it kindly Dr Watson...an addictive personality. While the majority of his addictions are harmless...some are not..." Mycroft paused for a moment studying John with such an intense gaze that it made him feel a little uncomfortable. "The great puzzle is which are you, Dr Watson?"

"Me?" answered John with a frown, confused by Mycroft's question.

"Yes Dr John Hamish Watson why else do you think my brother was so desperate to come back to London?" answered Mycroft sounding a little surprised. "It certainly wasn't because of family and one city is pretty much like another once you start scratching away at the surface, all have dark secrets to be revealed, intriguing mysteries to be solved, quite enough to keep that genius brain of his occupied, one would think. And yet as soon as the news of Sebastian Moran's death hit the New York Times my brother, with only the clothes on his back it would seem, caught the first flight back to London. It makes one wonder what there is in our fair capital that could be so important to him, that Sherlock Holmes would leave New York without even packing an overnight bag. But what is more important now that Sherlock is back are you prepared to stay with him no matter what he may ask of you, Dr Watson...because if not then I suggest you leave him now. Despite what you might think, what Sherlock might have told you, he is family and I will do whatever it takes to prevent him from spiralling into that dark place again...but are you John?"

"I won't allow him to score drugs if that is what is worrying you Mycroft, not just because I am a doctor but because I am his friend, there is no way I am going to let that happen again" retorted John angrily at Mycroft subtle accusation.

"Thankfully that little addiction is now behind Sherlock" replied Mycroft. "But as I said my brother possesses an addictive personality and believe me if I didn't have the faith in you Dr Watson, that you are the right for Sherlock then we wouldn't be having this conversation at all"

"Are you threatening me, Mycroft because I think you've already tired that and it didn't work the first time?" John reminded suddenly feeling quite defensive.

"No it didn't..."Mycroft replied seemingly amused by John's words. "Strange that my brother should pick you of all people to..."

"Sorry" interrupted John as his phone went off with a text alert in his jacket pocket. He slipped the phone from his pocket and glanced down at the message then returned it back into his pocket grumbling under his breath.

"Let me take a guess he asked you to pick him up a packet of cigarettes" smirked Mycroft.

"How did you know that...no don't tell me" answered John with a sigh.

"I suggest you do as Sherlock asks...just this once" replied Mycroft softly.

"Why?" asked John. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Do you know my brother phoned me three times while you were away collecting your belonging from your sister's house, not just a text he actually dialled my number and spoke to me, apparently he missed you" explained Mycroft almost affectionately.

"But that wouldn't have meant getting up off the sofa" scoffed John nervously.

"My point exactly" said Mycroft. "And what does that tell you John?"

"Sir...your next appointment is scheduled to start in ten minutes" interrupted Anthea glancing up from her mobile phone.

"Thank you Anthea" replied Mycroft with a curt nod. "Ahhh...well it seems I must cut our chat short but I am sure we shall meet again soon. I would ask you to keep this little chat between ourselves but..." Mycroft paused as he glanced down at his watch. "But I am sure my brother will have already deduced by the time elapsed since you left the flat that you haven't spent all this time shopping for milk, bread and a packet of cigarettes" added Mycroft before turning sharply on his heels and walking swiftly away towards his own awaiting car.

"Is that it?" called John confused. "I don't understand"

"You will...and don't forget the cigarettes Dr Watson...you are going to need them" replied Mycroft his back turned as he held up his umbrella in a gesture of farewell.

"I am to drop you back to Baker Street" said Anthea as she opened the car door, still tapping on her mobile phone.

"Oh right" answered John still bemused by the whole affair as he watched Mycroft's car pull away into the dark distance of the car park. "I don't suppose we could pop into Asda on the way...only it seems I've forgotten to pick up a packet of cigarettes".


	8. Chapter Eight 'Just let me kiss you'

All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Eight

'Just let me kiss you, John'

Dr John Watson returned to 221B to find Sherlock anxiously pacing the flat. The tall, strikingly attractive consulting detective stopped midstride, his beautiful blue eyes regarding John with such an intense, haunting gaze that made him feel a little uncomfortable.

"You have my cigarettes?" questioned Sherlock as he rudely snatched a plastic shopping bag from John's hands.

"Yes" John snapped angrily as he retrieved the rest of the groceries back. "A thank you John would have been nice...honestly" he continued sadly, shaking his head.

John watched as Sherlock torn open the packet and gently shook out a cigarette as he searched the mantelpiece for a box of matches.

"Thank you John" replied Sherlock finally, the cigarette dangling seductively from his lips as he lit the tip and flopped down in the green leather armchair opposite John's favourite spot. Sherlock took a long, hard drag from his cigarette and then exhaled with a deep, satisfied sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he savoured the rush of nicotine hitting his system.

John shrugged, leaving Sherlock to smoke his cigarette and busied himself in the kitchen putting the shopping away and making himself a nice pot of tea.

John sat down as Sherlock drew a second cigarette from the packet, his legs were trembling and he seemed jittery, nervous as if something other than nicotine withdrawal was fraying his usual cold, calm composure.

"I take it you took up smoking again while ..." John paused as he poured the tea into his mug, blushing slightly "While you were staying with Miss Adler...I hope you didn't revert back to any other bad habits"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes with suspicion taking an exaggerated hard drag upon his cigarette. "We didn't sleep together John if that is what you are worried about..." snapped Sherlock defensively.

"What?" choked John nearly spilling his tea "I don't care if you slept with that woman...I meant drugs Sherlock...you didn't start taking drugs again"

"Oh" replied Sherlock, the faintest ting of crimson colouring his perfect, angular cheeks.

"No John the only little vices I allowed myself while I was away was the odd glass of vintage rouge..." Sherlock paused as he took another nervous puff upon his cigarette. "And a weekly update from my brother on how you were coping in my absence".

"You had Mycroft spy on me?" asked John.

"To be fair Mycroft has had you under surveillance ever since we met John" reminded Sherlock. "I just needed to know you weren't..."

"Going to do something stupid" retorted John. "Like jump off a tall building, perhaps?"

"Actually I meant you weren't in danger...but I suppose self harm or willingly putting yourself in danger falls under the same category" explained Sherlock reaching for his third cigarette.

"Oh no you don't" scolded John as he jumped up from his armchair and snatched the packet from Sherlock's hands.

"I am not going to watch you smoke a whole packet in one sitting Sherlock" huffed John, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"But John..." Sherlock growled in protest as he tried to retrieve the cigarettes. "I...I..." continued Sherlock as he advanced across the rug towards his best friend. John staggered backwards groaning in pain as his back hit the mantelpiece, now trapped by Sherlock's willowy body pressing up against him.

"Give them to me John, I need them" rasped Sherlock, his warm, smoky breath caressed John's upturning frowning face, his deep voice, soft and strangely needy.

"No you don't, you quit before you can do it again" answered John determinedly as he struggled to hide the cigarettes behind his back.

"But you don't understand John..." pleaded Sherlock as he reached behind John, grabbing him roughly by the wrist, twisting it slightly trying to make him drop the packet. "I...I...need them to calm my nerves before I...I...do this..." explained Sherlock as he let go of John's wrist and bent forward as he was going to place a gently caress upon John's mouth.

"But...but I'm not gay" objected John as he turned his face away and tried to push Sherlock from him, the sensation of the taller man's lean, firm body pressed against his own now taking on a whole new meaning.

"I know John...ever since we first met you have insisted very vocally and at every possible opportunity that you are not gay. And I would be inclined to agree...there is your unmistakable lack of style, honestly John a beige cardigan? Your minimal level of personal grooming...as I pointed out putting shampoo in your hair does not make you a homosexual, your numinous if ill fated attempts at wooing the ladies and collection of photographs of naked women on your laptop...all would suggest you are indeed straight John however..." Sherlock paused as he gently placed a long, elegant finger upon John's lips. "However on closer observation John...you're in a room with a very attractive, very naked woman and yet your gaze doesn't wander...even I 'checked her out' John which leads us into your evident jealous regarding my 'interest' in Miss Adler..." Sherlock slowly increased the pressure of his finger to silence the protests, his hand trembling slightly as he felt the taunt line of John's lips momentary curl downwards as he frowned in with confusion.

John looked up at Sherlock, his handsome, yet careworn face etched with worry and utter bewilderment. He could hear Sherlock's heartbeat thundering in his chest; feel his hot, smoky breath rapid and laboured upon his face, this sudden closeness, unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling. Sherlock continued with his deduction which oddly lacked its usual calm self assurance and superiority. "Whereas when we were summoned to Buckingham Palace I observed you blatantly staring at my backside whilst I was only clad in a bed sheet, hardly the actions of a completely straight man John. You kissed me, yes you were in shock, I had come back from the death so to speak so I'll give you that but then processed to show no objections to spending the rest of the night with me, in my bed. All of which leads me to the only possible conclusion that no John you are not gay but bisexual...and that you have developed feelings towards me beyond a desire of mere friendship, that you are in fact deeply attracted to me...shall I go on or will you just let me kiss you, John?" asked Sherlock blushing violently as he slowly removed his finger from his best friend's lips, his piercing, pale blue eyes, questioning but never faltering from John's upward gaze.

"W...what?" stammered John desperately trying to process everything Sherlock had just said to him. "You think I have feelings for you? Oh my god when Mycroft said you only came back to London because of me...I...I...never imagined he meant that you had fallen in love with me"

"Is that so hard to believe John? Search your own heart and tell me you do not feel the same about me? We are good for each other, we need each other, you know I am right John because I am always right...please John..." whispered Sherlock as he lent forward, his perfect, pale lips just inches from John's mouth. "Please do not let this be the one time in my life that I am wrong..." rasped Sherlock finally closing the inches between them and planted his lips upon the shorter man's mouth. Despite his deduction Sherlock expected John to push him away disgusted, their friendship in tatters but instead John responded by hungrily returning the gesture, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's slender, ashen neck and pulling him down into a breathless, passionate kiss. Sherlock closed his eyes as he battled John's eager mouth until finally slipping his tongue between those lips to deepen the kiss. Sherlock gave a soft moan shuddering against John's stockier, shorter frame, pushing him hard up against the mantelpiece as he felt those fingers twisting in the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

Finally Sherlock reluctantly broke away from the kiss, his lips tingling, swollen with the fierceness of their passionate caresses and yet so desperately longing to worship and explore John's mouth again.

"You are right Sherlock, I do love you but I don't know if I can do this..." panted John, his head spinning with a heady mixture excitement, fear and guilt.

"Neither do I" replied Sherlock quietly as he took hold of John's hand, entwining his long, elegant fingers with John's and started to lead him towards his bedroom. "But I would like to find out John, if I can..."

(A/N: As this was really a one shot idea I think that this might be the last chapter as unless the plot bunnies hit or I get a good, interesting promt I can't see where this little story would go. I like it as an opening to their 'new relationship' now Sherlock is back and have no doubt that I will return to them and continue their adventures together)


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